Even Button Eyes Can Cry
by Twilit Violet
Summary: When it rains it pours, and as Wybie's world begins to fall apart, there is only one place left for him to go. A place that promises an end to pain. But little does he know, even button eyes can cry. Rated T for language, violence and adult themes.
1. Gramma Lovat

_A/N: Okay, folks. This here is my very first Coraline fanfic, so please be gentle!This fic was extremely hard to place, so I picked the "General" category, even though it has strong overtones of "Hurt/Comfort," "Drama," "Supernatural," "Horror," "Friendship," "Angst" and "Romance." As a forewarning, there WILL be mild language and violence, along with other potentially adult themes. I will try to remember to post warnings at the beginning of any chapter that contains more than a simple little smack or a "damn."__ I apologize in advance for any similarities between this and any other Coraline fics out there. A lot of stories with similar plotlines are to be expected._

CHAPTER ONE:  
GRAMMA LOVAT

"Gramma, I'm home!" Wybie stood in the open doorway, shifting the weight of his backpack from one slouched shoulder to the other. Busy vacuuming with her back to the front door, Mrs. Lovat didn't appear to have heard him. Wybie took a step in retreat and looked down. Of all days for her to steam-clean the carpet! "Gramma?" he called out. No answer. "GRAMMA!"

Mrs. Lovat shut the vacuum off and shuffled around to face him. "There's no need to yell," she said edgily, dropping her gaze. Her eyes widened and she gasped. "Wybourne Jeremiah Lovat! You take those shoes off this second and leave them outside! Can't you see I just cleaned that floor?"

Wybie slouched over even more and slunk backwards onto the porch. "Sorry, Gram," he murmured, looking every bit like a hunchbacked assistant being scolded by his mad scientist master.

Though the treads weren't very deep, his black Converse All-stars had acquired a surprising quantity of mud in the short walk between the shed (where he'd parked his bike) and the house. It had been raining steadily all day. Remnant raindrops were still dripping from his firefighter's jacket as he left it draped across the porch swing to dry.

Wybie walked back inside to find his grandmother vacuuming up the mud he had tracked in. His damp-socked toes curled under to avoid being run over by the machine as he stood with his back to the door like a cornered animal. The deafening roar ceased a moment later. "Do you have homework?" Mrs. Lovat asked him. Wybie nodded.

"Algebra and English. Not a whole lot." He watched her wind up the cord. "Coraline's coming over in a little while to help with the math," he added. "Hope that's okay."

"Of course, dear. As long as you keep your bedroom door open."

Wybie blushed. "Gramma!"

Mrs. Lovat chuckled. She put the vacuum away in the hall closet, then went into the kitchen where Wybie was foraging in the fridge for an after-school snack. Once he found what he was hungering for, he sagged against the tiled counter, a stick of string cheese in one hand and a tube of blueberry Gogurt in the other.

"You'll spoil your supper," Mrs. Lovat warned him, though she made no attempt to stop him as he ate. Wybie alternated between the cheese and the yogurt, taking a bite of the one first and then chasing it with a swig of the other. He soon gave this up for a more efficient method, shoving both into his mouth at once and combining both distinctly different foods into one rather bizarre but interesting flavor. Mrs. Lovat narrowed her eyes.

"Those manners won't fly in this house, young man," she admonished, yanking the Gogurt tube from his mouth. "One at a time!" Some of the Gogurt squirted out and landed on the linoleum floor. Wybie didn't need to see the expectant look on his grandmother's face to tear off a paper towel square and kneel down to wipe it up. He threw the wadded mess away, then held his gloved hand out for the Gogurt. Mrs. Lovat stood her ground.

"Not until you finish your cheese. And don't wolf it down! _Chew_ your food, like a civilized human being! Honestly Wybourne, what's the point of my buying you snacks if you're just going to eat them like that?"

"It's just yogurt, Gram. It doesn't need chewing."

"I was talking about the cheese. The way you play around with it -"

"But it's _string _cheese!" Wybie argued. "The whole point is to play with it!" To illustrate, he peeled a length of it off with his teeth and lolled it around in his open mouth.

Mrs. Lovat cocked a brow. "Do you want your yogurt back or not?"

Wybie sighed and swallowed. He proceeded to finish the cheese in a mannerly fashion.

When he was finished, she handed the tube back to him. Wybie held it up to the light. "It's empty!"

"Well don't even think about opening another one until after dinner. I counted them this morning, and you're down to three." At the look of disappointment on her grandson's face, Mrs. Lovat smiled. "Don't worry, we'll be having dinner in an hour. You won't starve before then, will you?"

"Yes I will!" Wybie whined, sagging his frame in despair. Mrs. Lovat gave him a playful jab in the ribs.

"Oh, stop. You get plenty to eat and you know it. And stand up straight!" she snapped, jabbing him again, this time hard enough to cause him to take her seriously. Wybie straightened himself with an audible creak of the spine that earned him a scrutinizing look. Mrs. Lovat shook her head and sighed.

"With a posture like yours it's a wonder you're not on first-name terms with every chiropractor in town. And what is _this_?" she demanded, taking his head in her hands and yanking it down, forcing him to hunch over again. One smooth, wrinkled hand tenderly cupped his cheek while the other raked through his hair like an eagle's talons.

"OW! Gramma, c'mon! Lemme go!" Wybie struggled fruitlessly in the headlock she held him in. She was surprisingly strong for such a delicate-looking woman. He heard her tsk-tsk as she plucked something from his scalp (along with a few hairs, he was sure).

"The things I find in your hair!" she exclaimed, showing him the piece of hard candy she'd extracted. It was roundish and pink, with faded green stripes, and looked suspiciously like one of Mrs. Spink's hand-pulled taffies. Though if it was, it had to have been stuck in his hair since Tuesday, when he'd visited her last. Two days ago.

Mrs. Lovat heaved a sigh. "How did I _ever_ end up raising such a mess?" Despite her words, there was a deep fondness in her voice. She smiled, brushing gentle fingers through his frizzy dreads. Her other hand returned to his cheek, caressing it with the same fondness. "You're going to have to start shaving soon, do you know that? Lord knows you don't need a face to match your hair!"

Wybie blushed and chuckled, raising his hand to hers. It felt cooler than usual. Or was he just warmer?

"You're growing up so fast… but you're still such a little boy at times. I always knew you'd be the death of me." He tried to laugh at that too, but somehow he couldn't. Mrs. Lovat's smile grew smaller, sadder. "I'd blame your mother, were she still alive."

Wybie bit his lip. He wished she wouldn't mention her again, but she always did. Just when he'd thought he could put her out of his mind for a while, his grandmother had to remind him of the mother he'd lost, or of the father he'd never known. Seven long years had passed since the night he'd been pulled from the wreckage of that overturned station wagon and hauled off in that ambulance alone. Without his mother. That little boy hadn't understood why the paramedics left her behind. Seven years old wasn't old enough to be brave. And sometimes, he thought, fourteen wasn't old enough either.

With a sigh, Mrs. Lovat turned away. "Go do your homework," she murmured. She sounded tired. Wybie wasn't sure, but he thought she looked a tad pale. Either that, or perhaps it was the kitchen's poor southern exposure that showed her in an unflattering light.

"Coraline's coming over," he reminded her. "I'm waiting for her."

"Oh, alright. I'll let you know when supper's ready." The old woman shuffled toward the stove, her hand trembling slightly as she set a saucepan on a front burner. Wybie frowned

"Gramma? Are you okay?"

"Fine, dear," she replied, fluttering a wrist at him. "Just my arthritis acting up. It's this foul weather that's to blame. Go on upstairs now."

"I could cook dinner tonight, Gram, if you want."

Mrs. Lovat turned to him and smiled. "Oh, I can manage a little macaroni and beans on my own. Besides, you cooked last night."

Wybie shrugged. "I don't mind, really. And, well, if you're not feeling good…"

She patted his cheek affectionately. "Such a sweetheart. Reminds me that I didn't raise a complete mess after all."

Wybie chuckled, blushing as she brought his face down to hers and kissed his other cheek. He kissed hers in return and straightened up. "Love you, Gram."

"I love you too, Wybourne. Now go on upstairs and get started on that homework!"

* * *

It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon when a knock sounded on the front door.

"Come in!"

Coraline wiped her shoes thoroughly on the mat before stepping inside. "Hey, Mrs. Lovat!" she said, peeking into the kitchen.

"Oh hello, Caroline dear!" the old woman answered without looking up from the stove. "Wybourne's in his room. Remind him to keep his door open, will you?"

Coraline chuckled. "Don't worry, I will!" She wondered whether or not she'd merely misheard the pronunciation of her name. She couldn't remember the last time Mrs. Lovat had gotten it wrong.

"Dinner will be ready in half an hour!" Mrs. Lovat shouted after her as she charged up the stairs.

Coraline burst into Wybie's room, startling him so badly that he fell off the edge of his bed, where he had been poised playing a video game. Coraline looked at the TV screen, then grabbed a pillow off the bed and whapped him with it.

"You never told me you had _Dreamscape of Death 3_!" she snapped, pointing at the game consol.

"I don't!" Wybie snapped back. "This is _DOD 2._ You played it with me last weekend, remember?"

Coraline's glare faded. "Well I don't remember that," she countered, pointing at the screen. Giant radioactive-green worms roamed a landscape that resembled a cross between an M.C. Escher and a Salvador Dali painting, complete with melted objects oozing up and down stairs that led in every conceivable direction.

Wybie got up from the floor. "That's 'cuz I'm on level nine. Last I heard, _you_ only made it to level _four_."

Coraline stared at him in disbelief. "You went all the way up to level nine? Without _me_?"

Wybie grinned proudly. "That's right." He was met with a pillow in the face. "Well, you didn't want to go slug hunting with me the other day," he chuckled, "and it turned out I didn't really wanna go either, so…" he shrugged and gestured at the screen. "I came back home and ascended five levels solo."

Coraline growled, pointing finger at him. "Why-were-you-born Lovat, I oughtta hex you for that!"

Wybie threw his hands up in mock surrender. "Have mercy on your loyal minion, oh great and powerful water witch! I beg you!" Coraline shoved him down on the bed, laughing as she flayed him brutally with the pillow.

The next half hour was spent battling "Nightmare Crawlers" while complex algebra equations lay unsolved inside closed binders. Coraline's life bar was draining rapidly in the onslaught.

"You're doing it wrong!" Wybie accused, making it sound as though she were letting his warrior die on purpose. While she had been at first (to get back at him for reaching the ninth level without her) she had quickly found that she was having too much fun to die just yet. That is until one of the Nightmare Crawlers ate a toxic mushroom and gained the ability to spew corrosive acid in its wake - an acid that caused everything it touched to dissolve. That explained the melted objects.

"Aaarrrrrgh! Jonesy, you're killing me!" Wybie wailed, pulling at his hair. He jumped up suddenly and tried to grab the controls back. Coraline resisted, leaning away from him until she was lying on her side on the bed with her stocking feet on his chest, pushing him away. "No! Not that way! That's where the incubus is! If you wake him up you're dead!"

"I don't hear any studying!" Mrs. Lovat shouted from somewhere below.

Wybie rolled his eyes. "If forty is the sum of X times eight, then X must be equal to five!" he recited loudly. Coraline smirked at him as she plunged her lightning blade into the nearest worm.

"I _told_ you not to do that!" Wybie seethed. "See? Every time you cut a chunk off it just turns into another Crawler! How many are there now? One, two, three, four, f… seven? CORALINE!"

In the ensuing struggle both kids ended up on the floor with a loud thud.

"WYBOURNE!" Mrs. Lovat's voice carried up the stairs, sounding particularly cross.

"Bet she heard that," Coraline muttered, trying to untangle her limbs from the control cord.

"Heh, yeah. I can't even get up to go to the bathroom at night without her waking up and telling me to quit stomping around." Wybie took the controls and saved the current game before turning it off. He sniffed the air. "Guess dinner's ready."

Coraline stood up, sniffing too. She wrinkled her nose. "It smells like something's burning."

Wybie shrugged. "Well, I don't hear the smoke alarm -" The words were barely out of his mouth when a high-pitched beeping sounded from downstairs. Not overly concerned (he himself had set the alarm off countless times in the past) Wybie headed downstairs to see if his grandmother needed any help. Coraline followed. At the doorway to the kitchen, Wybie froze. The sight that greeted him sent his heart plummeting into his stomach.

On the stove a fire was growing rapidly out of a pan of stir-fried vegetables, beside which an overturned pot of half-cooked macaroni noodles had been spilled. Mrs. Lovat lay crumpled on the floor, facedown.

"GRAMMA!" Wybie flung himself to the floor and turned her over. She was unconscious, and deathly pale. A bruise was just beginning to darken on her forehead. Coraline gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. It took her a moment to notice the fire but when she did, she rushed to smother it, dropping a lid on the pan.

"Call 911!" Wybie shouted. "Hurry!" He sobbed and sputtered, rocking back and forth as he clutched the old woman's limp form to his chest like a rag doll. "_Hurry!" _

Coraline dashed out to the living room to make the call. "Hurry!" she repeated into the phone, as Wybie continued to shout from the kitchen.

"Is she conscious?" asked the dispatcher.

"No!"

"Is she breathing?"

"Is she breathing, Wybie? Yes! She is."

"Okay. Is her skin clammy?"

"I don't… Wybie! Wybie, feel her skin. Is it clammy?"

"I don't know!" Wybie snapped. He was growing hysterical. "Just tell them to hurry, damn it!"

The dispatcher instructed Coraline to stay on the line until the paramedics arrived. She was unable to call her parents until after Mrs. Lovat had been loaded into the ambulance and taken to the hospital several minutes later. Wybie hadn't been permitted to ride with his grandmother, and so now he was pacing frantically up and down the porch while they were forced to wait for the Joneses to come pick them up.

It took every fiber of his will, and every bit of Coraline's as well, to keep him from jumping on his bike and literally chasing after the ambulance. He barely managed to contain himself for all of one minute before suddenly leaping off the porch and sprinting down the dirt road toward the Pink Palace, determined to make better time than the Joneses were currently doing.

Coraline pelted after him through the driving rain and dusk. Headlights caught them both a second before a silver Volkswagen Beetle screeched to a halt in front of them. Mrs. Jones rolled down her window.

"Coraline Samantha Jones! What do you think you're doing running out in the -"

"No time to talk, Mom!" Coraline panted, cramming herself into the backseat with Wybie and slamming the door. "Let's go!"

"Not until you put your seatbelts on!"

"_No time_! C'mon Dad, step on it!"

* * *

_A/N: How cruel that my first chapter should turn out to be a cliffhanger, huh? XP If you can forgive me for that, please stay tuned for chapter two!_


	2. Rain

CHAPTER TWO:  
RAIN

The waiting room at the hospital was small and cold. The stinging stench of peroxide lingered in the air. Décor was limited to a dying plastic ficus tree and some cheap Thomas Kinkade reproductions hanging from the robin's egg blue walls. Two end tables stood littered with three-year-old _Redbook, People _and _National Geographic _magazines. Rain streaked the single window overlooking an empty parking lot, drops glittering orange from the streetlights below. It hadn't stopped raining since they'd arrived.

Mrs. Jones sat in the chair nearest the door, brooding over a Styrofoam cup half full of weak coffee. A gardening magazine lay open in her lap as she stared (or rather, glared) at the picture on the opposite wall. Kinkade's impossibly perfect fantasy garden seemed to mock her, causing the beauty mark above her upper lip to twitch in a fleeting sneer. It was with no small effort that she finally managed to tear her eyes away and resume reading the article on the selective cross-breeding of tulips.

Wybie knelt in the corner beneath the plastic tree, curved like a lemon wedge over the side of a chest of toys. He'd long ago given up pacing for a more productive means of passing the time. From the various Tinkertoy parts he'd been able to dig up, he had built and rebuilt what looked to be either a space-age Eiffel Tower or a robot hand, depending on which end you were looking at.

Coraline sat in a nearby chair. She too had given up pacing in favor of doodling a bat-winged, fire-breathing unicorn on an Etch-a-Sketch. Now and then she glanced up from her work to check the time. Was it her imagination, or hadn't the clock read 9:07 the last time she'd checked it? That had been at least ten minutes ago… hadn't it? Hard to believe it had only been three hours since they'd arrived at Ashland Community Hospital and been directed to this quaint little waiting room.

And still it rained.

Despite the reassurances of numerous members of the hospital's staff that they would keep him informed, and despite the Jones's insistence that he relax, Wybie jumped up every fifteen minutes like clockwork, bolted to the nearest nurse's station, and demanded an update on his grandmother's condition. As the time drew near again, Coraline and her mother both glanced up at the clock, then down at Wybie, waiting in silent anticipation.

Mrs. Jones was tempted to say, "Don't even think about it," but she didn't have the heart. That, and she was really hoping that he would forget for once. But no. The instant that six-minute-slow clock hit 9:15, Wybie was on his feet. The waiting room door swung open, and Wybie nearly collided with Mr. Jones, who was just returning from the cafeteria with an armful of snacks.

"Whoa!" he chuckled, fumbling a granola bar. Wybie stooped to pick it up for him, then made to dash outside. "Hold up, Wybie. I just checked with the head nurse. She says there's been no change, and no, they aren't allowing visitors yet."

Wybie looked up at the man, his expression a mixture of disappointment, anger and relief. The snacks were dumped into a chair as Wybie dumped himself into his own chair across the room. Ever since they'd arrived at the hospital, he had kept his distance from the Joneses, speaking to them only when absolutely necessary. If they tried sitting within three chairs of him, he would move to a farther part of the room. Oddly, he seemed to have made an exception for Coraline.

There was something in her presence that did not overbear or condescend; she understood the severity of his situation, yet she did not sympathize too strongly like her mother, or make weak attempts at humoring him like her father. There was just something in the way she sat silently by him in the corner, occasionally handing him a new piece to add to his Tinkertoy tower, or showing him her progress on the Etch-a-Sketch, that helped him retain a modicum of calm.

Coraline got up from her seat and rummaged through the pile of snacks. She selected a Butterfinger bar, a Milky Way bar, one can of Coke Zero, one of Mountain Dew, and two bags of Doritos. Mrs. Jones eyed her selection disapprovingly.

"Cafeteria was closed," her husband explained as he started in on a Snickers bar. "This is all they had in the machines." Mrs. Jones rolled her eyes and settled for a granola bar.

Coraline returned to her seat beside Wybie, silently offering him the Mountain Dew, Butterfinger and Doritos. He accepted them with a disinterested grunt that could barely be interpreted as a "thank you," and proceeded to sip lazily on the soda. Coraline watched him with concern. She knew him to have a healthy appetite, and the fact that neither one of them had had dinner that evening was even more unsettling. Under normal circumstances, he would have inhaled those snacks by now.

Wybie slumped so far down in his seat that he was practically on the floor. His firefighter's jacket lay draped across his lap, skeleton gloves poking their spooky fingers out of a pocket. He looked exhausted and somehow younger than his fourteen years as he picked absently at bits of dried mud that had splattered the hem of his jacket. Coraline chewed a Dorito worriedly.

"Aren't you hungry?" she asked him quietly. Despite that, her voice sounded unnaturally loud in the little room. "I'll trade you, if you don't like Butterfingers."

Wybie didn't answer. Coraline heaved an irritated sigh and looked up at the clock. "Do you think the nursery's still open?" she asked, glancing over at her parents.

"I doubt it," Mrs. Jones replied, thumbing through her magazine. "If you wanna go look, that's fine. Just don't be gone too long."

Coraline was on her feet before her mother finished her sentence. "C'mon, Wybie. Let's go make some babies cry."

"Coraline, don't you dare," Mrs. Jones warned.

"What? We're just gonna go make faces at them." She grabbed Wybie's hand and pulled him to his feet. "Come on, Why-were-you-born, let's go see who else was born!"

Wybie put up no resistance, nor did his movements seem very voluntary. He was so zombie-like in behavior that Coraline couldn't help shivering slightly. His hands were cold, his eyes lifeless. Once out of the waiting room, however, he seemed to perk up slightly. It was even colder out in the hall, so both kids donned their coats.

"I'm gonna go see Gramma," Wybie declared, walking away. Coraline followed without protest. She'd expected him to do this. After all, he'd done it the last time they'd gone up to the nursery. It was only after the nurse told him to quit pestering her or she'd call security that Coraline managed to drag him off to go "sightseeing." The gift shop had been closed, leaving them little else of interest until they stumbled upon the maternity ward and the adjacent nursery.

On their way to the nurse's station, a voice on the intercom announced a "Code Blue." Several pairs of rubber-soled shoes could be heard running down the hallway ahead of them, and by the time they rounded the last corner to the station, they found it empty. Not a single nurse or orderly in sight.

Wybie growled. Coraline tugged on his jacket. "C'mon. We'll check again on the way back." He allowed her to lead him like a dog on a leash up to the nursery on the next floor. When she gave his coat a yank that sent him stumbling out of the elevator, Coraline turned to catch him just as he fell into her. Looking down, she noticed (not for the first time) that the hem of his coat stopped about an inch or two above his knees. They had both grown a lot in the last three years, and the coat proved it.

"When are you gonna get with the program and get a new wardrobe?" she asked him teasingly.

"What's wrong with the way I dress?" Wybie grumbled, looking down at himself as they started down the hall toward the nursery.

"Well, for one thing, your jacket's seen better days. I mean, first it was too big on you, and now you're too big for it!"

"No'm not. I'm just growing into it, is all." He wanted to defend his beloved jacket further by telling her that it had belonged to his grandfather, who had bravely fought and died in fire only three months before he was born. Wybourne Oliver Lovat, the man he was named after. The man he idolized yet never knew. But he didn't.

And he knew, right then and there, that there would never come a day when he would take that jacket off and hang it up for good. The same went for his skeleton gloves and his skull mask, both of which his mother had made for him to wear on Halloween when he was seven years old. The last costume she'd ever made for him.

The nursery was closed. Coraline tried the door three times to be sure. "Tch. Well this bites." She sighed, leaning against the wall and sliding down it until she sat on the floor in front of the door. A tired-looking nurse shuffled past and told her she was a fire hazard and needed to move. Wybie took her extended hand and helped her up, then the two of them walked in silence back toward the waiting room.

There was someone else in the room besides the Joneses now. As Wybie opened the door, the stranger turned to face him. The stethoscope slung over his shoulders indicated that he was a doctor. One glance at the nametag reading "Clyde McPherson, MD" confirmed this. He was a tall, thin, middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair in a crew cut and a barely perceptible mustache. He looked grim, as did Coraline's parents. All three of them were staring at Wybie as though he were some sort of blemish. The doctor spoke before he could.

"Mr. Lovat, I presume?"

Wybie nodded meekly. "Yes, sir."

The doctor nodded back. "I'm Dr. McPherson, and I have been overseeing your grandmother's case."

Wybie frowned. "You're not the same doctor I saw earlier."

"You mean Dr. Brissane? His shift ended at eight. I assume he kept you informed on your grandmother's condition?"

"Not really. He just told me she had a stroke and she didn't look too good." Wybie stood up straighter and gave the man a hopeful look. "How is she now?"

Dr. McPherson's brows drew together, causing his forehead to wrinkle considerably. He bit his lip, and his eyes darted downward to his clipboard. It seemed to take him a long time to steel himself to answer. His dark eyes looked even darker as he met the boy's anxious gaze.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but… your grandmother is dead."

Somewhere deep inside Wybie's core, something shattered. Behind him, Coraline gasped and grabbed his arm. He stared, unblinking, at the bearer of this tragic news. McPherson sighed and shook his head.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am, son," he whispered, placing a consoling hand on the boy's shoulder.

A single, loud sob escaped Wybie's throat, and with a sudden violent shrug he shook off both the doctor's hand and Coraline's. He turned away, jerking the door open with such force that it slammed against the wall.

"Wybie! Wait!" Coraline shouted after him, but he couldn't hear her over the pounding of his heart echoing in his head or the pounding of his feet echoing down the hall. He never knew how he found his way outside. All he could think to do was run and run and run and keep on running and running and running and maybe somehow he could outrun this terrible nightmare.

But life is never that simple.

Halfway down the steps outside the hospital's main entrance, Wybie slipped on a wet leaf. And fell. He hit his right elbow on one step, his left knee on another, and his head on the sidewalk below. The rain - the rain that had been falling and falling and falling all evening fell gently now, mingling with the blood and tears on his face as he lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs. His head, his arm, his leg, his heart… everything hurt. _Hurt like hell. _

Wybie heard Coraline shrieking in his ear, felt her small but strong hands turning him over onto his back, felt them cupping his face, and saw the tears in her eyes as she sobbed and hiccupped and sniffled and asked him the sweetest and stupidest question of them all: "Are you all right?"

Wybie couldn't speak for the pain. _Oh God, the pain. _All he could do was groan and flutter his eyelids. He suddenly couldn't remember a time in his life when he had ever been _all right. _What could possibly be _all right _about being "that weirdo-orphaned-bastard-black kid"? _All wrong,_ he wanted to say. _All wrong…_

But the words wouldn't come.

He was soaking wet by the time he was brought back inside and wheeled into the Emergency Room. Whatever they gave him for pain worked miracles. He didn't feel a thing when they stitched him up, and when the drug's side effect of drowsiness took its toll, his last conscious thought was one of vague, morbid amusement at the idea that, somewhere in this same hospital, lay his grandmother's lifeless body.

And still it rained.


	3. Note

**NOTE TO MY READERS**

This is just to inform you all that this fic is on hiatus indefinitely due to personal issues. My mom went into the hospital nearly a month ago suffering a severe asthma/COPD attack. A family conference was called, wherein the doctor gave a negative prognosis. Mom has been sedated and on a ventilator the entire time due to respiratory failure and signs of septic shock. Even if she survives, she would have to live in a nursing home on a ventilator for the rest of her life, which would be short, anyway.

Because of these circumstances, I do not feel comfortable continuing this story at this time. I promise I will not abandon it, though. I just need time to deal with what's going on in my life right now. I'm very sorry for any inconvenience.

_~ Yeah, I know we're not technically allowed to post notes like this, but how else am I supposed to let you all know what's happening? Sure, I can send messages to everyone who left a signed review, but what about those who didn't? While I have no clue how many people are following this or any other fic of mine (because some people never review) I would like for ALL of my readers to be informed of what's going on. So please do not report me for this._


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